


Fools Tell the Truth

by midwich



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Minor Angst, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, compliments, oblivious hanzo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-19 22:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18979933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midwich/pseuds/midwich
Summary: Hanzo can always tell when people are lying – his dragons despise falsehoods, so they make his skin prickle with static.But somehow, his ability must be faulty when it comes to McCree. Because there’s no way that charming, silver-tongued Jesse McCree has never told a lie.There’s no way that McCree actually means it when he pays Hanzo all those flirty, outrageous compliments…right?





	1. Chapter 1

Hanzo was born with the ability to tell truth from lies. 

His dragons were ancient, powerful spirits who viewed falsehoods as a sign of disrespect. From deep within his flesh, they would twitch and shudder with fury at the slightest hint of deceit towards him. 

This meant that whenever Hanzo heard a lie, he’d feel a prickle of static, a buzzing under his skin. 

As a child, this ability hadn’t been especially useful. Mostly, he would just feel a minor itch whenever his and Genji’s nanny insisted that there was really no more cake left, or that vegetables actually tasted good. “Stop lying to me,” Hanzo often demanded, with all the severity a four-year old could muster, and Akane would only sigh and say, “Just finish them, young master, please…” Akane only ever told him small, white lies. Hardly worth the attention of the dragons, who usually settled down and soon returned to their slumber. 

This changed as he grew older.

When Hanzo was thirteen years old, he once beat his older cousin Tora in a contest of archery. Tora had showered him in praise afterwards. He’d ruffled Hanzo's hair and said, “You’re going to be a great leader someday.” There hadn't been a hint of deception on his kind face, and yet the moment he’d spoken, Hanzo had felt a strong, unpleasant buzz of static under his skin. The dragons were furious. Uneasy, he’d informed his father at once. 

Two weeks later, Hanzo watched as Tora and several others were put on trial for conspiring to remove Sojiro and his family from power. “We were going to use poison on the wife and sons,” Tora confessed, face twisted with pain as he knelt before the audience of elders. There was no buzzing under Hanzo’s skin anymore. Finally telling the truth, Hanzo thought detachedly, as he watched Tora’s head separate from his neck by his father’s sword. Deep within Hanzo’s flesh, the dragons were silent and content—justice had been served.

Genji, who hadn’t been permitted to observe the trial, had cried and screamed at Hanzo afterwards. Tora had been Genji’s favourite cousin. “Don’t be a child,” Hanzo told him, stony-faced. 

He didn’t tell Genji that Tora had been his favourite cousin too. 

After the trial, things changed for Hanzo. He’d been born with the dragons, so he’d always had his truth-telling ability. However, this was the first time it had had any real political consequences for his father—if Hanzo hadn’t sensed and reported Tora’s insincerity, it was entirely possible that the plot might have succeeded. 

Naturally, from that point onwards, Hanzo’s attendance was mandatory at all clan meetings, negotiations, and trials. Always, he was at his father’s shoulder, whispering into his ear, helping him sort the truth from the lies. Some lies were harmless like Akane’s: loud boasts, embellishments, empty words of flattery. Sojiro didn’t care about these. He only cared about the lies that were like Tora’s: the ones that hid disloyalty. Sojiro was fully committed to punishing traitors, even if they were traitors in thought only. 

Hanzo soon got used to watching people die by his word. Once he grew older, he began administering the “justice” himself—the dragons preferred when Hanzo fed their hunger with blood from his own blade. Afterwards, sated, they would at last fall blissfully silent beneath Hanzo’s skin. At least, until the next traitor. As his father's personal judge and executioner, the buzzing under his skin became near-constant.

No one outside of Hanzo’s immediate family and the clan elders were ever told of his ability. Nonetheless, as time passed and Sojiro continued rooting out dissidents with the unbelievable precision, all the while as Hanzo was whispering into his ear…well, it didn’t take long before rumours began to spread that Sojiro’s eldest son could see inside people’s hearts. 

The more cautious members of the clan began speaking to Hanzo more guardedly, or even avoiding him altogether (although that in itself was an admission of guilt that his father was able to exploit). 

However, most people remained unconvinced, and would still attempt to flatter and lie right to Hanzo’s face—often with the remarkable appearance of sincerity. 

“You’re so charming, Shimada-san!” 

“I can’t think of anyone better for the position.”

“I say this only because I trust you, understand?” 

Sometimes, Hanzo would pretend to fall for it. It was more useful if no one realized how accurately he could see through their harmless deceit. That meant that in time, the real traitors would freely reveal themselves without Hanzo having to ever lift a finger. 

Hanzo got used to hearing praise and compliments while feeling that ever-present prickle of static under his skin. He wasn’t personally offended—he knew that was simply the way things were. His upbringing had taught him that everyone wanted something from someone else, and only fools told the truth. Only fools…

…and Jesse McCree, apparently.

“Lord almighty, you’re on fire today!” McCree let out a low whistle as he peered up at the screen, where Hanzo’s stats for the session were listed. “Remind me to stay off your bad side—based on those numbers, I wouldn’t stand a lick of a chance.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hanzo said automatically. He was scanning the same screen far more critically and clicked his tongue. “My average draw speed went down.” 

McCree bit off a laugh. “Oh, now you’re just fishing—you have to know exactly how good you are. Though it still catches me off guard every time.”

Hanzo said nothing, uncomfortably aware that the dragons were silent inside his flesh. He avoided McCree’s eyes as he started disassembling his bow.

McCree didn’t seem put off by Hanzo’s silence. “Have to say, I’m mighty thankful you favour the bow,” he continued, with a shake of his head. “Don’t ever switch to guns, ya hear? You’re deadly enough as is.”

Hanzo stiffened, head snapping up. “Do you think me incapable of wielding a gun like yours?” he demanded.

McCree immediately raised his hands. “Never meant no such thing,” he said quickly, his eyes wide and earnest. “Just meant that if you preferred a six-shooter ‘stead of a bow, you’d put me right out of a job. Didn’t mean no insult, Hanzo, honest.” 

Again, not a single twitch from the dragons. Hanzo stared at McCree, silent and unblinking, long enough that McCree started looking anxious. Then, abruptly, Hanzo dropped his gaze. Exhaled once, sharply.

He was the one being ridiculous, not McCree. A faint, shameful heat rose to his cheeks. 

“I apologize for yelling,” Hanzo said quietly, dipping his head in a shallow bow. Cursing his own loss of composure.

McCree waved a hand. “Nah, forget about it. Sorry to bother you during training.” He flashed a crooked grin, tipped his hat in farewell, and left the shooting range—leaving Hanzo alone with his swirling thoughts and his accursedly quiet dragons. 

This was pretty much standard fare for all of Hanzo’s interactions with McCree. 

First, Hanzo would do something routine and unremarkable. Next, McCree would pay him an outrageous compliment that he had done absolutely nothing to deserve–the same kind of praise that Hanzo had been hearing his entire life–and yet his dragons would not react at all. As if McCree were actually speaking the truth. Every time, Hanzo would bristle with suspicion, often snap something he regretted immediately, and then McCree would apologize graciously and retreat. Leaving Hanzo feeling like a foolish child. 

-

When Hanzo had first joined Overwatch, he had not expected to be received with open arms. 

And just as he anticipated, many of his initial introductions–those wary “Nice to meet you”s–had made the dragons roil under his skin, seething at the lies. How dare they show such disrespect? Hanzo, well-practiced at ignoring the familiar prickle of static, had merely bowed and offered his own distant courtesy. Of course these niceties were insincere, he told the dragons. How could he expect anything else, with the weight of his sins?

Others had not even bothered with the pretence. Dr. Ziegler, for instance, had introduced herself with a blunt, cold professionalism, the dislike in her eyes entirely honest. Almost a relief. 

After a series of introductions composed entirely of either false civility or cold honesty, Hanzo had expected the very same from McCree. Which was why their first meeting had come as such a shock.

“The name’s Jesse McCree,” he’d said in a warm, lazy drawl, flashing that crooked smile. His handshake was firm–not recoiling at all from Hanzo’s touch. “Genji’s told me a lot about you. I hear you’re pretty handy with a bow. Not to boast, but I ain't such a bad marksman myself.” A charming wink, then a pat at the six-shooter holstered at his belt. “Wouldn’t say no to a lil friendly competition down at the shooting range some time. Whaddya say?”

To Hanzo’s utter confusion, there had been no tell-tale buzz of falsehood under his skin. The dragons slumbered on.

Warily, uncertainly, he had accepted the offer, and discovered that McCree was in fact an exceptional marksman. In the first match between them, Hanzo only managed to narrowly edge out McCree in the simulation due to superior vertical mobility. Afterwards, McCree had given him a strong clap on the shoulder, beamed through the sweat dripping into his eyes, and said, “Ya know, normally I don’t much like losing, but I think I’ll make an exception for you–that was some of the finest shooting I’ve ever seen. Same time tomorrow?” and Hanzo, completely bewildered by the silence of his dragons, could only nod dumbly. 

Now, here they were. Three months later, not a single thing had changed about McCree’s open, friendly manner–but Hanzo had only gotten stiffer and more doubtful over time. Paradoxically, the longer he knew McCree, the less he trusted him.

With every compliment, Hanzo braced himself for that familiar, damning buzz under his skin…yet with McCree, it never came. No matter how outrageous the flattery, how excessive the praise, the dragons never woke. Supposedly, that meant that McCree only ever spoke the truth.

But Hanzo knew better than to believe that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to "hanzo is a suspicious bastard" the fic
> 
> a happy ending is guaranteed because these boys deserve nothing less
> 
> im a new writer and this is my first time doing hanzo pov, so critique is always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter, hanzo takes two steps forward and one step back. mccree gets the wrong idea and genji intervenes

Hanzo’s suspicion towards McCree—and the man's outrageous flattery—was not helped by the fact that the two of them were repeatedly paired together on missions.

According to Winston, it was because Athena's algorithms had shown that Hanzo and McCree both had the highest mission completion rates when they were paired together—so logically, that was what happened.

Hanzo knew from first-hand experience that it was true. It was simple fact that he and McCree worked well together in the field. With their combined mobility and combat capabilities, they could cover a significant amount of ground and simultaneously deal a formidable amount of damage. Moreover, their fighting styles complemented each other, and they easily anticipated and compensated for each other's weaknesses. Whether during stealth or active battle, they hardly had to speak, and could read each other with only a single gesture or expression—often a frustrating experience for a third party, if there ever was one, who would loudly protest the silent communication as incomprehensible. Several of their teammates expressly refused to work with Hanzo and McCree alone. Between the two of them, there was simply no space for anyone else.

Because they were a perfect match for each other…in the field, at least.

It was outside of missions that Hanzo found challenging. Outside of combat settings, where McCree traded that calm, hyper-competent professionalism for outrageous, though ultimately harmless, flirting. Somehow, Hanzo could never swallow his unease. And as a result, he always ended up managing to push the other man away, even when he didn't intend to.

He’d done so only just last week, in fact.

The two of them had been sent to an international peace summit in Nepal—ostensibly just to provide additional security, but, in reality, to investigate an bomb threat traced to an anti-omnic terrorist group. Either way, it was a black-tie event, which was where Hanzo’s troubles began.

"—and that's when we realized the goats had gotten loose for the second time, so obviously, I grabbed the harmonica—"

Hanzo grunted, barely listening as McCree chattered on from the other room. He considered his grim reflection in the bathroom mirror, then reluctantly started to knot his tie. The last time he'd worn a suit like this had been his father's funeral, but his hands easily remembered the double Windsor.

"You look good. Very handsome," he recalled his mother saying that morning, her eyes pained as they passed over him. Too grief-stricken to remember, or perhaps care, that Hanzo could immediately feel the prickle of her lie under his skin. Hanzo hadn't asked her why.

He had known very well, just by looking in the mirror, that he was his father's exact likeness.

"—so anyway, that’s how I got a lifetime ban from the Mall of America." McCree rapped lightly on the bathroom door. "You done primping yet, Hanzo? I'm about ready to go eat my own weight in canapés."

Hanzo grunted again. He adjusted the knot of his tie one more time, grimacing at his reflection. Had he grown more or less like his father over the years? Over a decade after his death, it had become difficult to tell anymore. Now, all Hanzo saw was himself. Severe, cold, unsmiling—the face of a killer.

"C'mon, Hanzo, I'm sure you look fine," McCree said, more pleadingly now. "At this rate we're gonna be the last ones to arrive—"

"Yes, fine, I'm done," Hanzo interrupted, opening the door and stepping out from the bathroom. "Let's go."

McCree groaned and practically leapt out of the delicately-patterned hotel room armchair.

"About damn time, pumpkin, I'm starv—"

He choked and fell silent the moment he caught sight of Hanzo.

Hanzo instantly tensed under the burning stare. "What is it?" He quickly touched his hair (still neat), his beard (still trimmed), then his tie (still knotted). "McCree?"

McCree muttered something under his breath in another language and huffed out a laugh.

"McCree?" Hanzo repeated louder.

McCree blinked, finally seeming to notice Hanzo's agitation. He cleared his throat and smiled a bit sheepishly.

"Sorry, sorry. Nothing's wrong. 'S just that I've never seen you gussied up quite like this before." Then, to Hanzo’s disbelief, McCree backed up a step just so he could give Hanzo a proper, lingering once-over. "Christ, you look good enough to eat," he murmured.

The man was rude, and shameless, and ridiculous…and entirely sincere. As ever, the dragons were silent and quiescent at McCree's words.

"It's just a suit," Hanzo said shortly. He started fastening his cufflinks, just to give his hands something to do. But under McCree's openly appreciative stare, his fingers were suddenly clumsy, and he struggled for a long, excruciating moment to try and get the little gold bars into his sleeves—before finally giving up. He closed his eyes, mortified with himself.

"Need any help?" The rumble of McCree's voice had gotten closer.

Hanzo willed his face to remain composed before opening his eyes again. McCree was standing right before him, grin stretched across his large, indecent mouth.

Hanzo exhaled sharply. "That would be much appreciated, thank you," he said, offering up his wrists. He prayed, though without much hope, that McCree couldn't feel the goose bumps on his skin.

"You're paler here than I imagined," McCree said absently, as he fastened one cufflink, then the other. He didn't linger, his touch entirely brief and professional, but somehow that made it even worse. 

"...I'm sorry, what?" Hanzo said.

McCree straightened Hanzo's sleeves one last time before finally releasing Hanzo from his warm grip. "Rather expected more of a tan on you," he clarified, a hint of laughter in his voice, "seeing as you’re always running half naked into battle."

That snapped Hanzo out of his momentary stupor. "It's tactical!" he said, bristling. "I do it for my mobility, not because it pleases me to bare my flesh." He sniffed. "You needn’t look if it bothers you."

McCree's eyes crinkled, mouth drawing tight like he was valiantly suppressing a laugh. "I’m not bothered, Hanzo, just teasing. I mean, it's obvious you ain’t exactly hard on the eyes, looking like that." McCree took Hanzo's stilled expression as confusion rather than shock, and helpfully added, "It means you're a good-looking fella. Real handsome."

I know what you meant, Hanzo thought. He swallowed with some difficulty. "I was not aware you liked suits so much," he said stiffly.

McCree did laugh at that. "Sure, suits." He smirked, flashing a hint of a canine. "The suit's just a suit, Hanzo—you're the gorgeous one. No need to play coy about it."

Damn the man, Hanzo thought, as heat flooded his face.

It hardly bore mentioning that his dragons stayed silent. As always, it was as if McCree truly meant every word. As if he possessed no deeper motive, no hidden agenda whatsoever. It was bizarre, and astonishing, and…

Too good to be true, Hanzo realized consciously, for the first time. With that dawning realization, everything suddenly made sense.

Of course. His sense had to be faulty somehow when it came to McCree. After all, there was no reason that a man as clever and competent as Jesse McCree would be incapable of duplicity to Hanzo's face.

Hanzo knew very little about McCree’s own, mysterious powers—it was entirely possible that McCree possessed some secondary ability that could conceal deceit against forces like his dragons. That would explain why the dragons were never able to sense his artifice. Yes, that had to be it.

Though there was one thing that still confused Hanzo— _why_. McCree had to know that Hanzo already considered them allies (his occasional embarrassing outbursts notwithstanding). Any further flattery on McCree's part seemed like a waste of effort, at least from Hanzo's point of view.

But in any case, whatever McCree's agenda, whatever the motive behind his honeyed words, Hanzo wasn’t going to hold it against the man—he just wouldn't allow himself to fall for it again. Hanzo could accept the necessity of lies, but he refused to be made a fool of.

McCree was still watching him, one eyebrow raised. "You alright there? Froze up for a real long time." He chuckled. "Didn't break you with all those compliments, did I?"

"No," Hanzo said, calm now. "You did not.” He bowed his head shallowly. “You flatter me far too much, McCree.”

“Aw, I’m sure I don’t.” McCree grinned. "Though a handsome guy like you must hear it all the time, huh?”

“All my life,” Hanzo said honestly.

McCree’s smile faded. “Is that…so?” For some inexplicable reason, he looked very briefly dismayed. But it was smoothed away so quickly that Hanzo almost couldn’t be sure, replaced by a sly, knowing grin. “Had a hard time fending them all off, did you?”

Hanzo recalled the various unsavoury advances of all his past suitors—their slimy, overt flattery combined with that ever-present buzzing under his skin—and then shook his head. “It was no trouble, really. The ones I ignored all eventually realized that their advances were unwanted.”

“…And what about the ones you didn’t ignore?”

Hanzo blinked. “What about them?”

McCree hesitated, clearly deliberating over his words. “You ever find someone special to you?”

“Special?” Hanzo repeated.

A muscle jumped in McCree’s jaw. “Did you like any of them in particular, I mean? Outta the ones you didn’t ignore?”

“Not especially,” Hanzo said, confused. “Why would I like them? I was only ordered to show them favor because it brought my father political advantage. My feelings were irrelevant in the matter.”

A long silence followed.

“Is that so,” McCree said eventually, his voice curiously flat. "So you hadn't actually wanted anything to do with any of them."

"No, I wouldn't say I ever did," Hanzo said, still bemused. "The attention was usually exhausting." And irritating on his skin. "But it was not my place to reject them. In any case, with practice, it became easier to endure," he assured McCree.

And to be fair, Hanzo thought, he hadn’t entirely disliked the company of some of them. A few, he might even have chosen for himself, simply for their talented conversation. Although their words of praise had been no less artificial than the rest, at least the time spent with them had been a pleasant distraction, rather than a tedious chore.

But his mind was wandering. Hanzo shook his head and focused his gaze back on McCree—only to pause.

McCree was grimacing, a loose hand over his mouth.

“McCree?” Hanzo said, alarmed. “Are you feeling ill?”

The man took a deep breath. “Not physically, no.” He flashed Hanzo a quick smile. “Real sweet of you to care though.” His face twitched and he muttered something that sounded like a curse. “I mean—thank you. Just thank you, is all.”

“…Are you sure you feel fine?” Hanzo had never before seen the man this discomposed.

McCree only shook his head. “Don’t you worry about me.” He made an admirable attempt at his usual easy warmth but Hanzo knew him well enough to recognize that it was only just that—an attempt.

Hanzo almost groaned. What had he said wrong this time? He hadn't even lost his temper. Hanzo started mentally retracing what had just happened, but couldn’t pin down anything of note.

Eventually, McCree cleared his throat and gestured to the door. "Shall we, then?"

McCree kept a careful distance between them during the gathering, and sat apart from Hanzo on the jet back to Gibraltar. He looked in Hanzo’s direction exactly twice on the return flight, and each time, he turned away the moment Hanzo looked up.

Although the bomb threat never did materialize, Hanzo finished that mission feeling deeply troubled anyway.

-

Ever since he’d landed at Watchpoint several months ago, Hanzo had often wondered why the universe had chosen to throw Jesse McCree at him. Why it saw fit to bring him and McCree together, time and time again.

Obviously, Athena’s optimizing algorithm was what paired them together on missions.

But it wasn’t just the missions.

During their downtime at the Watchpoint, Hanzo seemed to run into McCree with an improbable frequency. He met him everywhere: the kitchens, the training rooms, the rooftops, the gardens, and so on. In fact, Hanzo would have strongly suspected McCree of following him, if not for the man’s appearance of genuine surprise and pleasure at their encounters every single time.

The two of them were simply creatures of similar habits.

Both early risers who woke with the sun and trained in the slowly lightening morning twilight. Both hungry at odd hours, seeking food or caffeine when the kitchens were otherwise deserted. Both reclusive, in their own ways, preferring to avoid the raucous energy of the common room in favour of a quiet drink in the evenings. Kindred spirits.

Hanzo suspected that if it weren’t for this recurrent, pointless cycle of McCree paying him absurd compliments, and Hanzo always managing to react in exactly the wrong way, then they could’ve easily grown to be very close friends.

But as it stood, Hanzo repeatedly managed to do or say things to push McCree away. Nevertheless, like a mistreated but loyal hound, the man would always, eventually return for more.

At least, that _had_ been the case.

After the summit in Nepal, McCree didn’t properly speak to Hanzo for many days.

It was a much longer drought than usual, and his absence weighed on Hanzo's mind more than was entirely appropriate. Had Hanzo finally managed to alienate the man for good this time? The thought made his stomach twist.

It wasn't exactly that they never saw each other. Given their similar lifestyles and habits, it would've been extremely difficult not to run into McCree at some point. Yet every time Hanzo came across him, if the two of them were alone together, McCree would politely but immediately excuse himself.

He never offered any made-up justifications. Only stated that he was leaving, and then did so before Hanzo could even begin to formulate a response. "Pardon me, I'll just be going now,” with a jaunty salute. Or "Sorry, I'll get out of your hair,” accompanied by a hat tip and a smile. And so on and so forth.

On the other hand, when there were others around, McCree didn't leave—but he did keep a healthy distance from Hanzo at all times, and only spoke to him when strictly necessary. Or to make polite, mindless small talk. From anyone else, the behaviour would have been perfectly ordinary—but from McCree, who had never been anything but warm and closely affectionate with Hanzo since the very first day they met…

It was maddening.

It got to the point where Hanzo spent several sleepless nights reconsidering his stance on the existence of a providential God. Because surely, this had to be some form of divine punishment. Never before had Hanzo been so acutely aware of the loss of McCree's company. He had simply always been there.

And now he wasn't.

"Oh, 'scuse me, didn't realize you were in here," McCree said one morning, when he’d walked into the shooting range and found Hanzo alone inside, already pulling arrows out of targets. "I'll just come back later,” McCree said, already turning on his heel to leave.

Hanzo, frozen with his handfuls of arrows, managed to collect himself, clear his throat, and call, "McCree," only just before the man was out the door.

McCree turned his head, expectant. "That's my name." Just like during all the other escapes he'd made, he seemed perfectly good-natured.

Yet he stayed right there, hovering in the doorway, ready to flee the instant Hanzo was done talking.

"You—There is no need for you to leave," Hanzo said stiffly. "The range is large enough for us both."

It was an inane statement that Hanzo immediately regretted—obviously, McCree already knew that. They'd certainly trained side by side enough times in the past. But Hanzo powered on. "It has been a while," he said, a little awkward. "Your presence here would not bother me." And I've missed you, he almost added, but swallowed just in time.

Hanzo wasn’t entirely sure what his face was doing. But whatever McCree read on it must have been compelling, because for a split second, McCree looked desperately torn—like he was almost in pain. But after a moment, he shook his head. "I think it'd be best if I left you to train in peace. Don't want to be a bother," McCree said. "See ya around, Hanzo."

He ducked out the door before Hanzo could reply. Leaving Hanzo alone once more.

McCree's words had been honest, Hanzo distantly noted—before remembering that he'd already decided to stop trusting his dragons when it came to McCree.

Though, for what little it was worth, they were still completely silent.

-

The confirmation that McCree was deliberately avoiding him stung a little. But if McCree had decided it was better if he and Hanzo didn't spend time together any more, then far be it from Hanzo to try and change his mind. In fact, this newfound distance made both of their lives a lot easier: McCree was no longer around to pay him absurdly high praise he didn't deserve, and Hanzo no longer had reason to snap and shout and make a fool of himself in response. And they could still do their work effectively on paired missions.

Hanzo told himself that this recent dearth of compliments suited him just fine.

“When are you going to stop sulking and make up with him?”

Hanzo scowled, hands pausing over the tea set. "I’m not sulking. I am merely respecting his clearly expressed desire for distance.”

“Right, right, of course.” Genji composed his scarred face into an expression of solemn agreement. “Yes, I was clearly mistaken. That is clearly what you are doing, brother. Not running away at all. Clearly.”

Hanzo had never needed the buzz under his skin to tell when Genji was being insincere.

He ignored Genji’s blatant mockery and started pouring the sencha. "McCree has been actively avoiding me at every turn. I do not know how else you would like me to interpret his behaviour.” He finished pouring out Genji’s cup and moved onto his own. "And if he does not desire my company, I certainly have no wish to inflict it upon him unwillingly."

Genji frowned. “Have you actually heard him say he doesn’t want to be around you? And if so, did the dragons confirm that he meant it?”

“No. No to both of those,” Hanzo admitted. “But to be honest, I don’t really trust the dragons when it comes to McCree. I think McCree might actually be immune somehow—it would explain why the dragons have never caught him lying.” When he looked to Genji, he found his brother staring back at him with weary exasperation.

"Or, he could just be telling the truth. Sometimes the simplest answer is the correct one, brother."

"Of course you would go for the simple option," Hanzo scoffed.

Genji scowled and kicked Hanzo's shin under the low tea table. Hanzo heroically suppressed the urge to kick him back.

At a stalemate, the two of them sipped their tea in silence for a long moment.

The air wasn't exactly comfortable between them, but it wasn't tense either—definitely progress, compared to earlier days. In the beginning, Hanzo could hardly look at his brother's visor-less face without his throat closing over.

Now, they had tea once a week in Hanzo's rooms, and sniped at each other in their mother tongue as though they were children again. Well...it was "progress" of a sort.

Genji eventually broke the silence. "I can't believe you still distrust McCree," Genji said. He muttered, almost to himself, "You'd think that being the human lie detector would make this shit easier for you."

“Don’t call me that,” Hanzo said automatically.

“Anyway, can you seriously think of no reason why he would suddenly start avoiding you? No reason at all?” Genji cocked his head. “Do you remember when exactly all of this started?”

“It was during the Nepal mission,” Hanzo said slowly. “I recall he grew upset after I mentioned some details about my past.”

Genji made a low humming sound. “What about your past specifically?”

“The suitors, mostly. The unwanted advances.” Hanzo set down the teapot.

When he looked up at Genji, he found his brother staring back at him with weary exasperation.

“And at any point in this story, did you perhaps imply that his advances were also unwanted?”

Hanzo stared at Genji blankly. “McCree’s…advances?”

Genji threw up his hands. “Praise, compliments—whatever! The sappy stuff he saves for you and only you.” Genji made a gagging sound for effect. “Let me rephrase—did you imply that his _compliments_ were also unwanted?”

“I don’t believe so.” Hanzo frowned. “But why would that be relevant? We were not talking about him at the time—we were talking about my suitors.”

Genji covered his face, groaning. “I refuse to believe you can still be this oblivious,” he said, muffled. “You don’t deserve to be the human lie detector. It’s wasted on you, brother, completely wasted.”

Hanzo knew Genji didn’t mean it—felt the instant buzz of static that proved his words a jest—but he tensed up anyway. “I did not choose to be like this,” he said quietly.

There was a pause.

Then, Genji dropped his hands, revealing his face unusually serious. “I know,” Genji said.

They were both well aware that there were certain truths that Hanzo would have rather he'd never learnt. Would have gladly traded for blissful ignorance, even if it meant he’d be as blind to deception as anyone else.

Hanzo still remembered the distinct hollow silence of the dragons as Genji had screamed and cursed him. Still remembered the agony of knowing that they were not rash, untruthful words spoken out of temper, but rather words that Genji meant with all his heart.

“I hate you. I’m sick of it all. I wish you weren't my brother. I wish I’d never been born to this family.” Then, finally, “I’d rather die than be a part of it.”

Hanzo had numbly drawn his sword. “Then you will die,” he’d said. "If that is what you wish."

Genji had bared his teeth as he drew his own sword. “It is,” he'd spat back. “Do your worst.” He'd given his sword a showy, careless flourish, and Hanzo had instantly known that Genji was going to die on Hanzo's own blade.

Even as Genji had weakened—from blood loss, from the countless cuts that Hanzo inflicted, over and over—even then, the dragons didn’t so much as twitch at his wild, laughing, hysterical taunts. Even then, Genji had meant every last word. “Go on, Hanzo. Go ahead and kill me. Do it. Do it!”

And Hanzo had done it.

A waste, Hanzo remembered himself thinking afterwards. In the end, the dragons had not wanted Genji's blood at all.

"Brother," Genji said. He set down his empty cup.

"I do not think McCree has tired of your company. From what you have told me, it sounds as though he is only trying to respect the boundaries you were never allowed to have. Trying to give you the distance he thinks _you_ want." Genji put his chin on his hand and raised his eyebrows. "So, that is the real question. Is that what you want? For him to leave you alone like this?"

"No," Hanzo breathed, before he could help himself.

As much as he could not believe McCree's ridiculous words... a guilty part of him had liked hearing them anyway. He liked McCree's company, his easy charm, his uncomplicated warmth and affection. And as much as Hanzo was thrown off by his compliments, he had never once classified McCree with all those who had flattered and praised him in the past—whose company he had only tolerated at best.

He did not merely tolerate McCree, Hanzo could admit, at least to himself. Far from it. These agonizing past few weeks had more than proven that to him.

Genji, who was still carefully watching his face, gave an approving nod at what he saw. "Then talk to him," Genji said. He pointed a finger. "And no more of this nonsense about him fooling your dragons."

Hanzo froze, drawing back at once. "It is not _nonsense_ ," he snapped. "It is a perfectly legitimate theory. Generous as he is, it's obvious McCree can't possibly believe everything he says. Have you heard the things that come out of his mouth?"

Genji gave a slow hiss of an exhale. He looked a little sad.

"I may not have your sixth sense, brother,” Genji said. “But I have been friends with McCree for many years now. And I have never known him to say anything but exactly what he means—at least, to those he truly cares about."

Hanzo said nothing. The rest of his sencha had fallen cold, he realized.

"Don’t doubt him, or yourself, so much," Genji said gently. "And just try to talk to him. Please. For both of your sakes. I only want you to be happy." Genji bowed his head. "You deserve to be happy."

The dragons slept on under Hanzo's skin.

But their silence felt less hollow, now. More at peace.

"I'll try," Hanzo said. And he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miraculously, hanzo is now Slightly Less in denial- although misunderstandings still abound 
> 
> for those worried about progress, rest assured that this fic won't drag out too much, ive got about another two or three chapters in me at most
> 
> as always, critique is most welcome. see ya next time folks


End file.
